


In Your Presence, Peace

by Illinia



Category: The Musketeers (2014)
Genre: Friendship, Gen, Pre-Slash, Swimming
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-02-03
Updated: 2015-02-03
Packaged: 2018-03-10 08:29:38
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,393
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3283721
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Illinia/pseuds/Illinia
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Aramis finds a moment of respite in Porthos' company.</p>
            </blockquote>





	In Your Presence, Peace

**Author's Note:**

> Set at some indeterminate point after the end of season one through to the current series.
> 
> Gen or pre-slash (in the eye of the beholder)

He had expected to feel out of kilter; a restless soul trapped but fierce and untamed. He normally felt this way when they had to accompany the King or Queen on a rural retreat. There was a bereft kind of stillness where the pulse of Paris should have been beating.

He flexed his toes into the grass. Already, though it was not too late in the evening, the dew had begun to form. There was a grounding sensuality in the act that freed some long held, generally disregarded, tightness in his chest.

“What are you doing? I thought we were going to swim.” A strong arm wove around his shoulders and the action pulled Aramis even more clearly into the present, so much so that he had to keep a gasp within.

They were not on duty that night. They had walked down to the grove to swim in the pool, Aramis reminded himself. Just he and Porthos; alone. The walk had been long, he realised retrospectively, and quieter than Porthos might have liked. How long had it been? How long since he had felt so present, but also so removed from the relentless miasma of desperation and guilt and longing that seemed to have become his daily existence?

He smiled. “Just enjoying the clean country air for a moment.”

Porthos was already nearly undressed and raised an eyebrow at him which, Aramis knew very well, meant _hurry yourself then_. He stripped to his braies and followed suit when Porthos shucked them as well. No sense in suffering any wet clothing after when it was only them around.

Some hesitation stole over him at the water’s edge and he knelt on the earth and watched Porthos’ form breach the surface of the pool, then laughed as his friend sucked in a breath at the coolness of the water. Porthos’ trepidation did not hold for long and he kicked further out, letting the water reach his chest and then further, relaxing into a calm stroke as the depth became greater than even his height. There was something beautiful in the sight which Aramis beheld. Years ago, early in their friendship, he had offered to teach Porthos how to swim, but it was an offer borne more from his own desire than any expectation of agreement. Part of Porthos’ inimitable charm, in Aramis’ view, was his easy dismissal of that in life which he knew he did not like, or would not want. Yet Porthos had accepted his offer readily and the trust his friend displayed, as he followed Aramis’ guidance when submerged into a world of flux and movement he had never felt before, had played its part in developing their camaraderie into the nameless, precious equilibrium it had become.

Aramis rose and stepped into the water, slowly, so as to feel its satin touch glide up his foot and encircle his legs.

“It’s easier when you do it quicker, mate.”

“My body has not so easily forgotten the unrelenting heat of today, Porthos, that it shies away from the cold now.” Even so, the stony earth fell away sharply not far in, and he was soon swimming out to join Porthos.

The sun had set behind them on their walk and they swam in a gentle twilight that would soon become a bright night, the nearly full moon already quite high in the sky. Aramis swam enough that the muscles of his body unravelled and then he ducked his head under, closing his eyes , feeling pleasantly cocooned until the thought of a babe resting in the womb caused his rhythm to falter and he brought his head up, coughing. Porthos swam over and trod water beside him and just looked at him, in the quizzical way that he did sometimes, and that Aramis could never decipher.

He grasped Aramis’ shoulders and pushed him under the water.

The pressure was gone almost immediately after and Aramis rose up, spluttering once more, but laughing. “Did you bring me all the way out here to drown me?”

“Uh huh. Got tired of your moping around.” Porthos’ answer was followed soon after by a wink.

“And what will you tell Athos and d’Artagnan?”

There was a ripple of water around Porthos’ neck that no doubt indicated a shrug. “I’ll tell ‘em you were taken by fairies, or dryads, or something.”

“Dryads? What have you been reading?”

“Some of your romances, obviously.”

“Obviously,” Aramis echoed, in an oft-used tone of casual amusement.

Porthos tired of treading water and swam for some minutes in his distinctive, powerful stroke, but soon found Aramis once more.

“Do I have to drown you then?”

Aramis blinked, having been lulled by the lazy ripples of the water into a sort of reverie, the brief conversation slipping from his mind. He remembered and laughed, but even he could tell there was a hint of something dark, and a little lost, in the sound. “I fear you may have to.”

Anticipating Porthos’ answering lunge for him, Aramis swam away quickly and managed to evade his friend’s pursuit for a circuit of the pool before Porthos caught one of his ankles. He twisted intuitively but still found himself once more under the water. He kicked out, suddenly disorientated enough that he could not work out in which direction he needed to move to get to the surface. Two sure hands found his waist and righted him and Porthos’ face cleared into view as he blinked the water from his eyelashes. There was a look of concern on his friend’s face that had not quite managed to displace the mischievous smirk there previously, so Aramis spat water into his face.

“Oy! Charming you are.” Porthos splashed him back and removed one hand from his waist to wipe his face.

“So they tell me.” He said it dismissively and felt that was what he could be, so far from Paris, with his friend’s scoffing expression before him; with Porthos’ hand still tight against his side as their bodies ebbed closer. There was a weight to the moment but Aramis was too content to ponder on it, and then the steady heat at his side moved to tug at his arm.

“Come on, don’t want it to get too cold before we get out and have to dry off.”

He followed Porthos to the bank and they clambered out. Porthos was no fool and had brought two blankets and by unspoken agreement they laid down on one and spread the other over them. It was still a balmy evening and Porthos always radiated warmth.

Porthos sighed happily. “There’s some perks to the countryside, I’ll give the King that.”

Aramis hummed his agreement and let his eyes slip closed. He opened them again, in surprise, when he felt Porthos shift and cup his cheek.

He gave Porthos a questioning look and his friend spoke gravely, but softly. “Why haven’t you told me, what’s been going on with you lately?”

Aramis tensed and trails of anxiety tightened his stomach. Porthos’ expression shifted to exasperation and he flicked Aramis’ cheek. “I said why, not what, idiot.”

Aramis cast his eyes down. “It would put you in danger, and it would be selfish.”

“Because you want to tell me?”

“Yes,” Aramis whispered, more into his friend’s shoulder than the air.

Porthos put an arm round his shoulders and drew his body further into him. “Athos knows?”

“Athos knows.”

“But you didn’t tell him?”

There was a droplet of water on Porthos’ neck that hung on, resisting the dry air and the heat of their bodies. “No, I didn’t have to.”

“Alright.”

It was too easy, and suddenly Aramis was inexplicably fighting back tears. A couple fell before he could control himself, falling on to his friend’s skin, and he prayed that Porthos would think it was water. Porthos was humming, Aramis eventually realised; he was not sure of the tune, or did not have the energy to identify it. Porthos’ fingertips were tracing beautiful, arcane symbols into the skin of Aramis’ shoulder and Aramis felt the tension run from his body in swift rivulets. He pressed his lips to the crease of Porthos’ neck and hoped the gratitude would be felt.

Porthos’ fingers stilled to rub his upper arm. “Warm enough?” came the pleasing rumble of Porthos’ voice.

“Plenty,” Aramis replied, and smiled.


End file.
